Ill mannered louts
Rude and crude
Loudly profane
Some barely sane
Respecting nothing
Least of all themselves
Throwing, chewing
Angrily spewing
No ambition or hope
On a downward slope
Lazily cussing
Over minutiae they’re fussing
Readily fighting
Scratching and biting
Destined for defeat
Sad fates they will meet
Mourn them in advance
They’ve nary a chance
So weep for these young
At the bottom of the rung
If you can hear yourself
Over the din of their crying rage
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